


terrifying final sights

by emptyswimmingpools



Category: Raven Cycle - Maggie Stiefvater
Genre: Angst, Based on a Tumblr Post, Canon Compliant, Character Study, Developing Relationship, Dreams and Nightmares, Fluff, Introspection, Kissing, M/M, Mild Smut, POV Ronan, Pining, Ronan Lynch is Bad at Feelings, Swearing, honestly so much angst
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-10-01
Updated: 2016-12-11
Packaged: 2018-08-18 14:17:00
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 7
Words: 9,619
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8164807
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/emptyswimmingpools/pseuds/emptyswimmingpools
Summary: Adam frowned. Ronan wanted to kiss him, to wipe the frown right off his face. He wanted to lazily thread his hands through his hair, trace the lines of his collarbones, lay with his body pressed against his own. But he couldn’t.
  or: four reasons to not kiss him, and three reasons to kiss him.





	1. dangerous

**Author's Note:**

> this work was inspired by [this](http://mnyards.tumblr.com/post/140643985026/inspo) lovely edit! i'm on tumblr at albertorosedne, come say hi. this takes place during _blue lily, lily blue_ and _the raven king_. apologies for any ooc-ness.
> 
> title: [_laura palmer_](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=JQnSc0bczg0), bastille.
> 
> alternatively, start reading this [**here**](http://albertorosedne.tumblr.com/tagged/tfs/chrono) on tumblr!

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> He could not bear the thought of bringing such things into the world, and so he forced himself to stay awake, no matter how large the dark circles under his eyes grew.
> 
> **I: WHEN HE’S AROUND ALL YOU DO IS TREMBLE. LOOK HOW MUCH POWER HE HAS OVER YOU. IT’S DANGEROUS.**

Sometimes, when the sky fell black and he refused to let himself dream, Ronan would stare out the window and think about the things he had sworn not to. If it was in the middle of the night, he deemed it uncountable; he could not be judged by others and was too tired to judge himself. He’d always been reluctant to sleep—more so recently than ever before, bar the few months after Niall Lynch had been murdered ( _night horrors night horrors night hor-_ )—because his dreams were home to the most violent of creatures: beady-eyed and motivated by their desire to destroy. He could not bear the thought of bringing such things into the world, and so he forced himself to stay awake, no matter how large the dark circles under his eyes grew.

 

But tonight was different: Adam was staying the night at Monmouth, sound asleep on the sofa, courtesy of accidentally falling asleep in the middle of a project; and with the object of his desires merely in the other room, Ronan felt an overwhelming surge of guilt flood his veins at the thought of his code-named ‘second secret’ being reflected on at such a time. It was hard not to, though, with Adam’s tousled hair and peaceful, delicate expression. It was hard when his freckles stood out prominently against his cheekbones, and his arms draped around himself—a makeshift blanket of sort. Adam didn’t accept much from others, but Ronan refused not to give.

 

Perhaps he was a masochist; or he was simply far too gone for Adam Parrish. Regardless, he quietly found an old blanket and covered the sleeping boy with it—a vague gesture of saying, _Here, sleep well, warm and unbothered._ Ronan exhaled heavily in that way he always did, then sat down on the floor by the window. He looked out gingerly, cautious he might somehow be in a dream and looking at a space a monster might jump out of, suddenly too aware of his own horrid abilities. He thought to himself, in lieu of admitting he was afraid (only someone who was weak would do that, after all, and he refused to associate with that word): _I need a fucking drink._

 

But was it worth it? Was it worth disturbing Gansey and Adam, who both barely slept as it was? Ronan often didn’t consider this, acting on impulse rather than evaluating the situation. Gansey was usually awake, too, stuck in an insomnia-induced exhaustion. But now, it felt… wrong. Cruel. And Ronan knew he often wasn’t the most kind of people, per se, but he wasn’t in the mood to make things worse and hate himself a little bit more than he already did.

 

_I’m afraid. I’m in love and I’m afraid. I’m a dreamer and I’m afraid._

 

Ronan couldn’t be sure how much time had passed when he heard stirring, then a muffled: “Lynch?” He turned around and raised an eyebrow, paralysed and unable to respond with something scorching and witty as he usually would. “Y’alright? You’re tremblin’,” said Adam.

 

Though it was dark, Ronan could see his expression seemed concerned, and simultaneously in disgusted by the way his sleepy state poisoned his accent with its natural ring. He didn’t respond for a while, composing himself as quickly as he could, but it grew increasingly hard with Adam’s eyes watching his every move. He felt anxious under the heat of the older boy’s gaze, which was not unusual, as his feelings were not the fleeting sort. They had formed a home inside his heart; tattooed the walls of his mind. He clenched his fists and gritted his teeth and forced out, “I’m fucking peachy, Parrish.”

 

Adam frowned. Ronan wanted to kiss him, to wipe the frown right off his face. He wanted to lazily thread his hands through his hair, trace the lines of his collarbones, lay with his body pressed against his own. But he couldn’t. It would be unfair, he reckoned: he was bound to destroy everyone who loved him, unable to bear the thought of ruining Adam, as if his father hadn’t already done enough of a job himself. He was a royal mess, he mused, desperately schooling his shaking body, and it was because he loved someone he didn’t deserve. Because Adam made him feel so sure of himself, secure and real, yet his hands trembled at the thought of holding Adam’s. It felt right, almost meant to be, but laced with a sense of weakness. It was odd, how much power Adam had over Ronan. He was drawn to him like a moth to a flame, he craved his presence; he was sure he would follow Adam almost anywhere, and that rather scared him.

 

This was dangerous. His feelings for Adam were a danger to the world, but he couldn’t bring himself to stop. He didn’t choose this; loving Adam was a natural thing, something he tried desperately to control but knew he could not. He’d always been loud and ferocious but he had many secrets he kept quiet about, and he thought Adam might have known that already (the observant fucker). Gansey certainly did; he knew most things about Ronan. They were brothers, best friends.

 

He brought his arm to his mouth, nervously sinking his teeth into one of his leather bands that were tied loyally around his bony wrists. His heartbeat slowed. Adam sat up, rubbed his eyes with the back of his beautiful hands. The silence felt uncomfortable, a lingering burden that weighed on Ronan’s (already heavy) shoulders, albeit he was unsure how to break it.

 

Adam broke the silence, asking quietly, “Did you put this”—he held up the blanket—“on me?”

 

Ronan nodded. His throat still felt like it wouldn’t form a reliable response, so he hoped that would suffice for now. Adam seemed at least mildly content with it.

 

“Okay,” he said.

 

Ronan went to bed and did not sleep straight away. Instead, he let the distraction of Adam’s lips run miles through his mind and prevent him from falling asleep, from dreaming. Come morning, Ronan had achieved a mere two hours of sleep in total, and woke up with lotion clenched in his hands, having dreamt of Adam’s hands touching him yet again. He allowed the guilt to overcome his being and vowed not to speak of it. He made himself a glass of orange juice and went to antagonise Gansey as his usual routine guided him to, deciding there was nothing better to do.

 

_I’m afraid and I will not let it consume me._


	2. violence

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Ronan wore his threats as his skin, but inside that, he was conjured by fear.
> 
> **II: HE’S TOO GOOD AT FORGIVING AND YOU’RE TOO GOOD AT VIOLENCE.**

Ronan had always thought that whenever he wasn’t feeling happy, he was somewhat angry. His anger had bled out into his every other emotion—like an open wound, spilling uncontrollably, staining how he saw the world around him. He was unsure how to control it, but after having let out his anger (be it drinking, fighting, or some other distraction), he usually felt better in a strange sort of way. Like, there it was: his innermost feelings, laid out in a physical form. This was how he felt; he’d let it out. He thought that might mean his psyche was fucked up, but at this point, almost nothing could faze Ronan. He’d seen it all: angry red lines across his own wrist, his father dead, bleeding, in the driveway, Adam’s abuse and fighting his dad… It seemed the stream of violence was an unchanging occurrence in his life, and perhaps that was okay.

 

He’d grown awfully used to it, but that did not budge the fact that he was still irrefutably petrified of dreaming. Ronan wore his threats as his skin, but inside that, he was conjured by fear. It was the fear that he’d destroy the life he’d acquired himself; fear that he’d hurt someone— _anyone_ —with something he brought back; fear that people would see the dream and instantly be able to read the dark spots in Ronan’s mind as if it were a simple magazine. He quite reckoned that he deserved it, though, and so he did not complain about its drawbacks.

 

Ronan was awfully protective of his secrets. He was not so careful with his fierceness. Hard to control, they were: he gave into them without putting up a fight (much unlike his arguments with Declan, the eldest Lynch brother). Each time, he knew it wouldn’t end up well, but he did not stop. Ronan Lynch was a product of violence and anger who ought to come with a fluorescent warning sign: _CAUTION, SHARP EDGES._ If you weren’t careful, his snark would cut you like glass shards from a broken beer bottle he’d likely drank earlier.

 

_I’m violence I’m dangerous I’m afraid_

 

Adam Parrish was a boy who had the unfortunate curse of growing up with Robert Parrish, whose abusive tendencies made him a merciless apathetic. Objectively, he knew he wasn’t as bad as Adam’s father, but he often felt like he was no better than him: like his mind was insistent upon him feeling sorry for himself. Ronan had no idea how it must have felt for Adam, but he knew where to draw the line. He knew Adam’s limits and he knew how to not be such a violent fucker around him, although he didn’t stop the insults so much. Just, perhaps sometimes fate didn’t want it to work out.

 

Adam was too good at forgiving, letting people off. Sure, perhaps he got mad himself sometimes, often telling Gansey off, but in the end there was always a finalised point of: _It’s okay, you’re forgiven._ Ronan didn’t think he honestly deserved that kind of treatment from Adam. Ronan was more than a badly-worded sentence and a short argument; he was a biting remark and a grudge that would last for months. He was violence and Adam didn’t deserve that considering what he’d been through. (He didn’t deserve it regardless.)

 

It was a shame, really, because the only person Adam had refused to forgive over the years was himself. It was a shame, really, because although Ronan held a lot of pent-up anger towards other people, the largest amount of it was directed toward himself. They were both awfully pessimistic beings, and perhaps that was the foundation of their common ground.

 

Sometimes, when he looked at Adam, all he could picture was the lingering thought that he did not deserve him; Adam was too good for him. That he’d tear Adam’s heart to shreds in the span of thirty seconds, that one of his dreams would attack him, that he would insist upon pushing him away, that—

 

_I’m afraid he’ll love me and I’m afraid he won’t. I’m afraid he’ll forgive me and I’m afraid I’m nothing but a reckless destroyer._

 

He’d created night horrors, which was enough proof to back up Ronan’s violent tendencies. Fuck’s sake, there had been a point where he’d latched onto _Kavinsky_ and his antics, and although he was terribly ashamed of what he’d done during that time, the past created the person he was today. But he knew that if Adam had chosen to not forgive him, he’d be more adamant to not see him, as opposed to trusting him openly and observing his actions more. Ronan thought he might tell Adam off for it; say, “I’m not worth it,” but he didn’t have the strength within him to do anything other than stare wondrously at him; to joke around with him as light-hearted as he could muster; to stand near him like he needed Adam’s presence more than he needed his next breath of oxygen. (It felt as though he did indeed.)

 

Ronan grabbed a bottle of beer from the fridge; it tasted wretched, but he payed no mind. He drank until there was all but a drop left, then he found more bottles and drank some more until he couldn’t feel a thing. The world seemed to blur together in a familiar haze, and for the first time that day, there wasn’t an odd desire to punch a wall gnawing at the back of his head, wanting so desperately to bleed: relishing the sting of the open wound: he deserved it. He deserved the scabs and the bandage and the disappointment from Gansey. Truth was, Ronan thought he deserved the violence, and that was why it was okay.

 

(But was it okay to be afraid of himself all the time? Was it okay to want to avoid looking in mirrors because he couldn’t bear the sight of himself? Was it okay to never sleep because he didn’t want to hurt anyone with anything he might bring back, to live in a constant state of anger he’d harboured over the years?

 

Truth was, Ronan Lynch had flaws, but he was a good person regardless. He dreamt little brothers and baby birds and trusted his friends with the utmost loyalty; he was kind and delicate in the way he touched, spoke to the things he loved; he was light and laughter and wit and memories. Ronan was a walking contradiction, an enigma within an anomaly.

 

Truth was, Ronan Lynch did not deserve the violence he’d learnt to associate himself with, for he was more than just a configuration of flesh and blood and bones ready to be ripped apart.

 

Truth was, it was not okay. He was merely a stubborn soul with a troubled conscience who refused to admit that his vices did not overpower his virtues.  _ Bullshit _ , he would say; but the beauty of the forest he’d dreamt whispered loyally back,  _ You’re wrong. _ )

 

Somewhere amongst the alcohol, Adam had knocked on the door. “I left some books here last night,” he stated, responding to the pointed, questioning look Ronan shot him. He quirked his head. “Have you been drinking?”

 

“The fuck do you think?”

 

Adam did not answer the question. Instead, he asked, “Can I come in?”

 

Ronan said, “Sure, Parrish.”

 

Adam’s hair was damp from the rain outside (unusual, Ronan mused: it was fucking summer, not autumn), and he was shivering slightly because of it through the thin material of his jacket, though he looked as though he was desperately attempting to conceal that fact. It wasn’t particularly cold that night—just chilly—but the rain obviously had enough of an effect on its own damn self. He moved quickly, rushing to get back outside, as if him being inside was a burden to Ronan. It was not, really, but Ronan had never been good with his words and didn’t know how to tell Adam he was welcome anytime.

 

Ronan thought he might kiss Adam like this, just safe from the rain and not in the middle of Greenmantle-Glendower-Cabeswater work. But his courage left the door the moment Adam did.

 

He stood there, contemplating for a moment or two, before following Adam outside. Adam raised an eyebrow. “Do you wanna go for a drive?” he asked finally—an excuse for more alone-time.

 

“What, you’d want to even in my shitbox?”

 

“Yes, Parrish, even in your no-good, piece of shit car.”

 

_ As long as I’m with you. (I don’t deserve it.) _

 

Adam smiled. Ronan bit his lip to refrain from kissing him and got inside the passenger seat.

 

_(I’m scared.)_


	3. magic

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Adam turned to look at him, more than just a glimpse, a fleeting glance; was he remarking how difficult it was to define the monstrosity Ronan was inside, being buried beneath the layers of a somewhat ordinary appearance? 
> 
> **III: YOU WOULDN’T KNOW HOW TO HOLD SOMETHING MAGIC AND NOT DESTROY IT.**

Inside the car, Ronan remained silent, bar the obnoxious sound of his nails tapping and scraping rhythmically along to the sound of his heartbeat against the car door. He looked straight ahead, the stretch of road ahead of them disappearing slower than he’d like underneath the front of the car, where the wheels tore up the ground. From his peripheral vision, he saw Adam quirk his lips a little in thought—not a smirk, but rather a half-smile: a small gesture of contentment. Ronan smiled; he turned the radio on.

 

“Really, Lynch?” Adam questioned his actions, but Ronan merely shrugged, as if to say: _Whatever._ “Thought you’d be more partial towards that mixtape.”

 

Ronan twitched at the mere memory of it: choosing the songs, dreaming its body, sneaking to lay it neatly on the driver’s car seat, too anxious to give it to Adam himself. He’d like to think he’d gotten more subtle with the hand lotion, however.

 

“Funny, Parrish. Real funny,” said Ronan, deadpan. Despite his monotony, his insides were in flames, drenched in gasoline and heartache. He wiped his clammy hands hastily on the thighs of his jeans, desperately looking anywhere else but in Adam’s direction, just to ensure he wouldn’t spot the tinge of colour that had risen on his cheeks.

 

Adam turned the radio off, opting instead for the almost-silence. Nothing could ever be perfectly quiet, still, relaxed when Ronan Lynch was involved in the matter. He was loud in his existence, never spoke without meaning. Perhaps that was one of few things Ronan didn’t entirely hate about himself.

 

Adam turned to look at him, more than just a glimpse, a fleeting glance; was he remarking how difficult it was to define the monstrosity Ronan was inside, being buried beneath the layers of a somewhat ordinary appearance?

 

Ronan sucked in a sharp breath; the world blurred a little. He saw Adam’s hand reach to change the gear shift. He wondered what would happen if he were to rest his hand gently overtop. Would he be all right with it, would he smile warmly at him? Would he glare, shake it off, drive quickly back home? Ronan had always thought the latter, having the idea that he wasn’t good enough for Adam ingrained in him, but logically speaking, the thought that Adam might at least like him back seems… not _impossible._ But slightly intangible, maybe: just out of reach: a distant dream.

 

Ronan discreetly moved his hand underneath his thigh to stop the temptation. It was best if he didn’t, anyway—Ronan did not know how to hold something as magic as Adam Parrish and not destroy it within time. He didn’t trust himself to touch Adam for more than a few seconds, just mindlessly. Casual. But he ought to admit to himself that just watching from ‘afar’ was never going to be enough—not really—because delusion was likely against his own, set policies. Being with Adam was sinfully addicting, and there was no way he could keep that truth.

 

At least, not with him sat hardly a metre away from Ronan, presence close enough to give him an aneurysm, or perhaps a spontaneous combustion, or a heart attack that never stopped.

 

He reckoned he’d orbit Adam like the Earth did the Sun: relying on its warmth to survive. Adam was a sort of solitude for Ronan—an escape from the darkness he’d grown accustomed to over the years, made it into a makeshift home, learnt to live in despite its ability to shun pain upon him. He was light. He was peace. Ronan hadn’t acquired an awful lot of that over the past few years; it was a nice new addition.

 

He smiled. Adam noticed this, smiling back at him.

 

Ronan asked, voice sharp to disguise the nerves, “So you liked the mixtape, then?”

 

Ronan thought Adam might’ve blushed at this, but could not decide if it was merely his imagination or not. Just him getting his hopes up, making things out to be more than they were.

 

“I didn’t appreciate the Murder Squash song,” said Adam, “but yeah. I did, thanks.”

 

“S’fine, man.”

 

And then it was silent.

 

_I’m scared I’ll destroy him_

 

 _(I’m scared I’ll destroy_ me _)_

* * *

It was gone 1 AM; Ronan’s thoughts were going wild. Adam quietly asked him if he wanted to be dropped off at Monmouth or the Barns. Ronan said nothing, voice blocked by a wave of anxiety. It was a strange thing, not being loud. But in that moment, he didn’t quite know how to be anything but quiet. It was unnervingly wrong.

 

Adam drove them both to St Agnes instead, throwing Ronan something to sleep in. Ronan thanked him and made a makeshift bed on the floor, like he normally would whenever he decided to stay with Adam. He’d make a mess and Adam would sarcastically tell him, “Make yourself at home,” and Ronan would snort and that would be that. But tonight was more of a silent agreement, something he didn’t need nor wanted to clarify.

 

The floor of St Agnes was not the most pleasant of places to fall asleep on, especially when Ronan had grown used to much softer beds. But it was okay: he felt better falling asleep when he wasn’t alone, and trusted that if he should dream something unsightly, Adam would wake him up. He was often afraid that a dream object might hurt Adam somehow, but paid no mind to this tonight.

 

He didn’t dream that night, and thus woke up in a not-so-terrible-but-not-fantastic-either mood. His back ached from the floor and he felt sort of groggy but that felt so utterly insignificant in the grand scheme of things. Adam was already up by the time he got out of bed. “Sleep well, Parrish?” he asked, all bravado and smirk.

 

“Just fine, Lynch. You?” Adam handed him a cup of coffee. Ronan nodded in acknowledgement, a silent _Thank you._

 

“Same.”

 

Ronan wondered what it would be like to kiss Adam now, with the taste of coffee lingering on his lips, morning air surrounding them delicately. It’d be nice, he thought. But perhaps once he started he wouldn’t stop. What would happen if he were to shatter Adam in his hands, mouth lingering upon the cracks, lips stained with blood?

 

Ronan took a sip and ignored the liquid burning his tongue. Instead, he smiled almost wickedly, bitterly. He was almost certain Gansey had texted him about a thousand times, feverishly asking if he was all right and where he was, then came to the realisation that he’d left his phone back at Monmouth, and texted several apologies after that; but the thought failed to falter his smirk. In fact, it quite brightened it up—the idea of Gansey stumbling around was a rather good and fond one at that.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> sorry for the late update and the fact that the pacing of this part felt too fast. i'm on tumblr @albertorosedne x


	4. dream

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Drawn in his father’s mind, created in the dark of the night; plucked from a dream seamlessly like a child picking a flower and placed on the land. Adam didn’t quite fit with its view, being all sharp lines and dusty coveralls (whereas the Barns’ appearance was clean and pure and well-kempt), but the light that hit his face made something in Ronan’s heart want to flutter right out of his chest.
> 
> **IV: YOU STILL AREN’T SURE HE ISN’T A DREAM. IF YOU KISS HIM, YOU MIGHT WAKE UP.**

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> listEN i know they're canonically white but just consider this: idc, they're poc. this chapter is Dreamy with a capital d so i listened to a lot of music from the _her_ soundtrack for good vibes. drinking game: take a shot for every semicolon; i'm not paying ur hospital/funeral bills.
> 
> apologies this took so long. i'm quite busy right now, as sixth form is killing me slowly, #ripme. also, thank you for all the lovely comments! they make my day. feedback is really appreciated. next up: actual kissing! (about time, lmao. also, time jump: we're in bllb now, and the actual kissing starts as of trk, obviously)

The next time Ronan saw Adam was merely just a day later, thanks to the likes of Aglionby. He was tired, having not slept too well the night prior, but being tired was his default state by now; he’d learnt to function well with its demands, and it felt almost unnatural—like a part of him was missing—if he wasn’t. Adam greeted him with a smile and a languid fist-bump, which was unusual by Ronan’s standards, though he forced himself to not make a big deal out of it. Naturally, though—subconsciously, almost—he felt his eyes soften as they dwelled on Adam’s features, a light, airy feeling surging through him, delicate like a summer breeze: too delicate for someone like Ronan Lynch.

 

“Hey, Parrish,” he said finally, schooling his voice to its regular sharpness. He bit the inside of his cheek in a resort to not blurt out something along the lines of: _You look awfully pretty today, Adam._ And he did (obviously). Around them, a scene of chaos erupted as Aglionby boys in the corridor ran outside all at once—there was supposedly a fight going on they didn’t want to miss—but the two of them remained stood still by their lockers, merely staring at each other.

 

Ronan wondered if Adam’s deaf ear made the loudness more overwhelming, like another reminder of what had happened.

 

Adam raised an eyebrow. He remarked, “Surprised it’s not you who’s gotten in a fight, Lynch.” Despite himself, Ronan cracked a smile: the one he would usually reserve for Matthew; bright and unreserved; Ronan laid bare.

 

“I have more class than the school grounds,” replied Ronan in fake dismissal. Adam snorted in lieu of saying a sarcastic: _Sure you do._ Ronan paused; and then, “Do you have work after school?”

 

“Yeah, I do. But I finish early today. Why?”

 

Ronan asked, as casual as he could muster, “I’m doing more”—he paused to gesticulate angrily: what word could possibly describe his objectives?—“at the Barns. You should, I don’t know, come help. Keep me company and shit.”

 

Adam smiled slyly. “All right,” he agreed, firm and resolute.

 

The end of the day came in great slowness, unfortunate to Ronan. But the Barns perhaps made up for that fact. The air hung crisp and low, smelling wistfully of petrichor and grass; dewdrops made themselves comfortable upon flora that grew around the field; the sun shone warmly, delicately, kissing the surface of Ronan’s skin. It was a visionary dream. Something almost intangible: right in front of him, clear as day, though seemingly too good to be true. Drawn in his father’s mind, created in the dark of the night; plucked from a dream seamlessly like a child picking a flower and placed on the land. Adam didn’t quite fit with its view, being all sharp lines and dusty coveralls (whereas the Barns’ appearance was clean and pure and well-kempt), but the light that hit his face made something in Ronan’s heart want to flutter right out of his chest—a butterfly made of his affection.

 

Adam wiped a spot of grease away from his cheek; he obviously came straight from work. Ronan liked the look of him all disheveled, with his tousled hair and casual body language and oil-stained skin. He looked as he did in a dream Ronan guiltily had the other night, set merely in Cabeswater, where they talked and talked and hands wandered, moving intensely; the overwhelming feeling of his touch, dark skin glowing bronze in the light, _oh, God_ … The memory made him shiver; he hoped Adam did not notice this sudden abnormality in his behaviour.

 

But what if

 

_I think he might be a dream. This is all in my head, a scene from my desires. If I press my lips against his, I fear I may wake up. This is a dream. I’m in a dream and it feels too real and I’m scared._

 

it wasn’t real? Ronan figured he had made it up and he’d eventually shatter the illusion like it was fragile glass being dropped suddenly against a hard, tiled surface. But for once, he didn’t quite feel like waking up from this. He was happy asleep, but standing by Adam’s side; elbows brushing with innocent intent, eyes glancing in wonder, all wit and flirt and banter. He felt a longing sort of pain poke at his brain—a tug-of-war between dreams and logic. It felt like a danger within this world of ease.

 

“I know when I’m awake and when I’m asleep,” he’d told Adam not a few weeks ago; he was beginning to think that perhaps he should not have been so sure of himself then. The uncertainty made his head spin.

 

If it was real, though, what would it feel like? Would he feel invincible, untouchable? Or would he come to _wish_ it was only a dream he could wake up from? His relationship with Adam often felt like it could be broken so easily, like two seconds would make Adam want to turn away from him and never look back. Ronan was sure he did not have the capacity to hate Adam Parrish, but vice versa was another story. He knew Adam didn’t hate him. Not anymore. But how far did that reach, exactly? Would kissing him for just a brief, chaste moment ruin it all?

 

 _He’s right in front of me and yet he’s so intangible. This doesn’t feel much like a dream but he’s too close for it_ not _to be. I’m going to fuck this up. I fuck everything up. I’m a walking disaster, destined to destroy._

 

Ronan wanted to talk, say something, but when he opened his mouth only air came out; his words had been swallowed, following the path down his tongue that led to the grave of words in his chest that remained unspoken: sentences that had died before they could be airborne. They just worked in silence, Ronan sat on the floor fiddling with his bracelets, Adam perched on the chair by the desk, textbook out, hand gripping his pen for dear life. Ronan wondered when this got so complicated. It used to feel so much easier to talk, breathe around Adam; but now Ronan knew that Adam was aware of how he felt, it felt impossible to tip-toe around.

 

Being with Adam was something he always wanted to do, and yet he was in a predicament where he had to force himself into it. It was strange, really: Ronan Lynch was a _do_ er, not a _think_ er. He acted on impulse, never held himself back. He never did anything halfway, always adamant on putting his heart and soul into everything. He was fierce. He was strong-willed. So why was he letting this get to him? Was the weight on his shoulders finally too much to lift?

 

No, he thought stubbornly. It couldn’t be. It wouldn’t be.

 

(He’d lift the weight of every star in the universe if it meant being with Adam.)


	5. beautiful

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> There was a brief few seconds where Ronan simply looked at Adam and took everything in: dusty hair falling loosely over his forehead, eyes; the normally soft contours of his face turned harsh yet striking in the light; freckles lightly dusting the high points of his cheeks and nose. Adam Parrish had a strange sort of beauty, one that had Ronan on a leash, bounding him fealty. He was oddly captivating in a way that a model might be, but with his kempt-but-unkempt demeanor tainting that illusion.
> 
> **V: BECAUSE HE’S BEAUTIFUL.**

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> a) i'm sorry this took so long! i just really wanted this to be p e r f e c t, y'feel  
> b) to make up for this i have ur overdue kissy kissy and our good pal blue in it. hope u enjoy, u hoes  
> c) feedback fuels me. comment or hmu on [tumblr](https://albertorosedne.tumblr.com), thanku x

The moment was one of quietness: distant chatter downstairs, but merely smoker’s exhales and unspoken feelings and Ronan loving fearfully, anxiously, guessing what the boy next to him might do if he were to capture his lips in a kiss. He mindlessly studied the toy car in his hands, slightly cold to touch, forcing himself to try focusing on the details of it rather than Adam, Adam, Adam. His peripheral vision showed Adam’s heaving chest, the outline of his blue shirt clinging to his slender frame, the slight jog of his leg against the frame of Ronan’s bed.

 

Ronan’s bed, _Ronan’s_ bed, Ronan’s _bed_. The thought of that—the boy he loved sat alone with him in his childhood room, the place he possibly loved the most, learning each other, jean-clad thighs pressed closely together—made his heart stutter in his chest; although against his own accord, he’d grown used to this feeling, this inexplicable surge of happiness seizing his being. It felt like a rush, like the muted joy of winning a street race, or like a child receiving exactly what they wanted and more at Christmas. This was how he felt around Adam. It was electric.

 

Ronan put down the model of the car.

 

There was a brief few seconds where Ronan simply looked at Adam and took everything in: dusty hair falling loosely over his forehead, eyes; the normally soft contours of his face turned harsh yet striking in the light; freckles lightly dusting the high points of his cheeks and nose. Adam Parrish had a strange sort of beauty, one that had Ronan on a leash, bounding him fealty. He was oddly captivating in a way that a model might be, but with his kempt-but-unkempt demeanor tainting that illusion. He was a dream, perhaps, though not one of Ronan’s; he deemed himself unable of creating someone as intricately wonderful as Adam—he was a conjurer of dark things that would come to haunt his own mind. He brought life to perverse horrors and bloody wrists and crimes.

 

But somehow, in that one moment, that did not matter anymore. For the both of them, things such as fathers and magic and love were heavy things—frustrating complexities they’d tried to examine for a while with no luck—that weighed them down, pressed against their chests and constricted their lungs. But no such things were relevant then: it was just Adam and Ronan together, eye-to-eye, feelings gone numb.

 

Ronan kissed him.

 

It felt… He didn’t know how it felt. It was lips on lips and mind-numbing emotion he could not put into coherent thoughts. Everything was a blur in that moment: static melting his mind, eating away at his racing heartbeat, gnawing at the feeling of his hands pressing against Adam’s body (which was, surprisingly, leaning into his touch. Ronan was, beyond the confusion, pleasantly surprised he wasn’t being pushed away—that instead, Adam was kissing him back, responsive as ever, letting it be). He pulled away, and despite the air heaving back into his lungs, he still felt as though he could not breathe.

 

Now that Ronan had had a glimpse of tasting Adam’s lips pressed gently against his, he knew he was starving for more. He didn’t care if it was selfish at all. He was merely only concerned about how addicting this boy in front of him was, how nice the feeling was. He could feel only relief when Adam kissed him again, this time slightly harder than the last, that same rush, multiplied. It was almost overwhelming, really—he’d been building this up in his head for a year and a half (give or take…), refusing to share his feelings for Adam to anybody. But now they’d been made official, requited and all, and Ronan felt an awful lot like screaming into an empty field. Or someone’s face.

 

And so because he could not, he instead left the room and went back downstairs, like any normal person who had just had their soul kissed out would.

* * *

Ronan Lynch liked to pride himself in the fact that he never lied. He would avoid the truth in bitter worry, afraid to bare his soul to even himself; but no such false utterances had left his lips in years. He deemed it important, and he knew it was one of Gansey’s favourite traits; it may as well have been the only reason he still managed to put up with Ronan’s antics through his much darker periods: to be honest meant to be trustworthy, and to be trustworthy meant to be loyal.

 

Sometimes, though, he hated this promise he’d made to himself, particularly when avoiding the question failed suit. Tonight was a night of truths—a night of reluctant confessions and blushes and glares. Tonight was a night of Blue Sargent asking, “Ronan, what happened to make you _smile_?” and Ronan Lynch wishing he could disappear.

 

He replied, barely managing his usual curt tone, “None of your business, maggot.” It was not an insult like it may have seemed; instead, it was merely a: _I would tell you but my heart has yet to calm down. I’m scared it won’t and I’ve fucked it up already._ Blue looked at him, eyebrow raised, fire in her eyes: that familiar blazing heat that let the world know she would never back down. Not that he would tell her this, but he sort of admired that fierceness about her. His own fierceness was unlike hers: it destroyed, rather than endeared. They were the same in different ways.

 

She lifted her hands up in mock surrender, offence; “Just making conversation, Lynch.” She said it like she knew it would agitate him; like she knew what he’d respond with.

 

Ronan said, “Whatever, Sargent,” ever bad at conversing, and be it anyone else, that would have been that. But it was not, alas. So Blue spoke in turn.

 

Sly: “Y’know, though, we don’t ever talk all that much. Would it _kill_ you to explain why you went beet red?”

 

He would have been almost offended at the expression _beet red_ had it not been so overwhelmingly true he couldn’t speak a word against it. He did, however, feel a slight pinch of anger tease his throat. It wasn’t at Blue, but rather himself: for feeling so openly, for not being careful, and then for still being hard on himself when Gansey had insisted he shouldn’t be.

 

He sighed—long, loud—and sat down on one of the three stools in the kitchen they stood in. “Fucking fine,” he started, breathing slow. Saying it out loud made it more real, he found. And real made him anxious: dream things were things he’d made real, and most dream things were objects to be wary of. “I kissed Adam.”

 

Blue smiled, all teeth and real feeling, without an ounce of tease. Just genuine, unsaid: _I’m happy for you._ She declared, “Took you long enough!” It was as if she’d known for months, which, she likely had: Ronan knew he was not the most subtle of people when it came to controlling how long his gaze lingered on Adam.

 

Ronan elbowed her, a silent and sarcastic: _Fuck you._ Blue laughed, then she smacked his arm. Everything felt manageable then. It was their normal routine, after all, and it didn't feel so… precious. Abnormal, but in a good way, almost.

 

“What made you do it?” Blue asked, barely a whisper, like she was worried speaking louder would ruin the words.

 

Ronan remembered how Adam had looked in that moment, all dark shadows and pretty green eyes and plump lips. _Because he looked beautiful_ lingered on his lips, being the truth; but when he opened his mouth he couldn’t force the words out. And he couldn’t lie, could he? So lie he did not.

 

“It felt right,” he whispered.


	6. asked

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> To be in love with Adam Parrish was not only just butterflies and blushes. It was being stuck in Latin together and flicking a pen at him, then correcting his grammar smugly while he rolled his eyes. It was early mornings at Monmouth sat cross-legged on the floor next to each other, gleam in Adam’s eyes as they made fun of something Gansey had said together. It was insults that had no venom, spoken like a compliment, held back for the sake of routine.
> 
> **VI: BECAUSE HE ASKED.**

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> He had only just been making out with Ronan, and his hands would have nonetheless murdered him while Adam watched. (TRK, pg. 403)
> 
> This is that time they made out, so like a missing scene of sorts. Spoiler: there's a handjob; if you're not here for this shit, click the ｢x｣ to skip to where it ends! (Please go easy. I'm a sad lesbian.) Oh, and don't ask why Adam was sleeping with jeans on. I wrote it in then it was too late to go back.

It was an odd thing, knowing that Adam Parrish reciprocated Ronan’s feelings. Half of him figured because Adam was so adamant on being his own person, he’d hate being ‘tied down’ in a relationship—but then, Blue. But then, Ronan. Although this revelation was a strange thought that refused to settle—one ear out the other, disbelieving—it was undeniably nice. The kind of thought that felt an awful lot like the adrenaline rush going down on a large roller coaster, soaring and laughing and screaming with all his might. It was to be on top of the world: sitting on the rooftop of the Barns watching the sunset, warm wind blowing lightly in his curls, mug in hand; it was a candle for comfort when the light went out.

 

(To be in love with Adam Parrish, however, was not only just butterflies and blushes. It was being stuck in Latin together and flicking a pen at him, then correcting his grammar smugly while he rolled his eyes. It was early mornings at Monmouth sat cross-legged on the floor next to each other, gleam in Adam’s eyes as they made fun of something Gansey had said together. It was insults that had no venom, spoken like a compliment, held back for the sake of routine, and just for being a cocky asshole sometimes.

 

To be in love with Adam Parrish was to let go and follow the trail of adventure. Ronan thought he might just be okay with the idea of Adam, one day, feeling the same way about him. Wouldn’t that be funny? Two teenagers hopelessly tangled together like shoelaces knotted, making some kind of life together, picking up broken shards of fathers and magic and dreams along the way. They were made of fracture lines, little scars and faults, needing something to fill the cracks in. Perhaps that was each other.)

 

The thing was, they hadn’t yet defined their relationship into words. Actually, bar the times they kissed, they hadn’t done anything about it. Ronan was permanently tempted to just reach his hand out a little more, lace their hands together like it was the most natural gesture in the world, run his fingers over Adam’s scabbed knuckles—for he was a modern tragedy, but he bled golden ichor like something out of this world, something ethereal and godly. Funny, that. Ronan had always thought his hands were made to choke—not hold. It was as if they were a weapon of mass destruction.

 

He knew he ought to be more secure in himself, but something about the dreams just kept pushing him deeper in his pool of hate. The thing about being the Greywaren was that he knew he had too much power he couldn’t control; it had the capability to create evil. Ronan could only pray deeply there would never come a day where it would hurt not only Adam, but Gansey and even Blue. (He’d say Noah, too, but the kid was already dead, so.)

 

Ronan Lynch had never been good with words. He hoped he could successfully convey how he felt with gestures, instead.

* * *

Sometimes, it was the dark that stripped him devoid of security. He was a vulnerable creature in his dreams and it showed beneath the leather on his wrist. But sometimes, it was the dark that made him feel the most alive he could ever be.

 

In the night, he sought adrenaline; he drove past speed limits, feeling wind against dark skin. It was the thrill of tearing up the ground beneath his tires that made him feel like himself; the rhythm of his music blaring loud enough to drown out his every other thought except for: _I am alive._ Sometimes, he would stop in the middle of nowhere and sit on the hood of the BMW and sip languidly on whatever mostly-drank beer bottle he could find in the boot, and he’d scream and smile like there was no tomorrow, because he knew he could do whatever he pleased and he felt like he could be something short of invincible, standing tall and almost proud like the bruises on his fist were battle scars. On his way back, he’d turn his music off and listen to the sound of birds squawking frantically, and drunkards shouting as they tripped over the pavement; he would watch longingly as everything was whole around him, and for a brief moment, he could forget about sleeping. It was nothing. But everything else was _something._

 

Right now, however, Ronan Lynch sat at the foot of Adam Parrish’s makeshift bed, legs hugged close to his chest, a shield—entirely unsure of how the dark was affecting him. Though he could hear that Adam’s breathing was even and only his chest moved, he could somehow tell that the boy was not asleep, but rather wishing he was. The fact that both their feelings had been expressed was the elephant in the room neither cared to address out of something akin to pride, but dwelled on excessively in the comfort of their own, silent thoughts. Knowing the feel of Adam’s lips, his hands, was to be alive, Ronan thought; but to let it be without doing anything about it was to give in.

 

Without bothering to find his phone and actually check the time, Ronan assumed it was at least half past midnight. Impulsiveness was far too attractive to not give into its desire, though, so he did not care. He whispered, “Parrish.” The half-awake figure in question merely groaned in response. “ _Adam_ ,” he said, more urgent and less soft.

 

Adam did not bother to school his accent when he replied, “The fuck do you want, Lynch?”

 

“Just”—he gestured frustratedly, haphazardly with his hands—“get over here a minute, won’t you?”

 

Adam did. Ronan heard him groan lightly, then shuffle out of his bed as if it was a much harder task than it was in reality. (Maybe it was, though, Ronan mused. Adam barely obtained any sleep with all the late night studying he did. He felt guilty for stealing away this opportunity.) Moments later, as requested, Adam sat next to Ronan at the end of the mattress/makeshift bed/pile of shit. In the faint light, Ronan saw Adam quirk his eyebrow up at him in lieu of saying: _So, what is it, then?_ But Ronan just smirked in response, then he looked away, studying the discarded open textbooks with notes jotted in precise handwriting crowding Adam’s desk. He did not expect Adam to tentatively reach out and place his hand atop of Ronan’s. His head snapped to look at the other boy, who adorned a small smile; Ronan just stared instead of smiling back.

 

So, that was that: two scared boys, eye to eye, in the attic of a church, fingers laced together like they’d been before in some of Ronan’s best dreams. It almost felt like this moment _was_ a dream, like he shouldn’t be doing this—

 

_What are we doing?_

 

He watched as Adam’s mouth opened, no words leaving the space between his lips. Ronan quirked an eyebrow like Adam had done earlier, and, mouth still open, he sighed, then spoke: “Kiss me.” It was barely a whisper, it was so faint, but Ronan heard it so clearly it might as well have been said through a megaphone. His voice was urgent and devoid of pride, Ronan was stunned for a moment (if he hadn’t already been sat down, perhaps he’d have collapsed). “Please.”

 

Ronan kissed him.

 

It was ironic, really, that Ronan called him out of bed, yet Adam was the one to _do_ something. But nonetheless, Ronan applied as much enthusiasm as he could into the kiss, pouring his feelings out, laying his soul bare on his lips for Adam to take for himself, a gift given willingly. Ronan took the hand that wasn’t still occupied by holding Adam’s hand, and softly cupped the line of Adam’s jaw, stroking gently at his skin with his thumb. And then it was tongue on tongue, Adam’s hand on Ronan’s waist; breaking away to attach his lips to Adam’s neck, hesitant little moans. ｢x｣

 

He broke away, unlaced their hands, looked Adam in the eye. He said, breathless, “Tell me to stop if you don’t want it,” receiving a nod in reply. Ronan let himself run his hands down Adam’s chest before reaching to palm at his semi-hard crotch, Adam gasping in response. Ronan looked at him for silent permission; Adam nodded slightly but surely. He kissed him hard, one hand resting on his nape while he attempted to undo the button at the top of Adam’s jeans with the other.

 

Needless to say, it did not exactly work out as planned: with minimal space between them, one hand elsewhere and his eyes shut, it was an awfully hard job. Adam snickered into his mouth at him struggling, so Ronan broke off. “Shut the fuck up,” he said, no malice, then swiftly pulled his jeans down and kissed gently at Adam’s abdomen, effectively silencing him. Ronan moved his mouth up and pecked his lips once, briefly, before feverishly shoving a hand down Adam’s boxers and wrapping it around his dick.

 

“Jesus Christ,” hissed Adam, head tilted back. Ronan took this opportunity to kiss at the exposed area as he started stroking his hand up and down the length. Both of them were breathing heavy at this point, desperate and nervous and so full of overwhelming, undefinable want, pressed too close together to make a great job out of it; but they didn’t care about that. It was hot because it was awkward, because it was just _them_ and them alone, not a care in the world aside from Ronan’s hands and Adam’s dick and uneven breaths diffusing through the chill of the air that licked against the skin showing from rucked-up shirts. The weight of Adam’s dick in his hand was oddly addicting.

 

Ronan smirked, grip tightening. “Don’t blaspheme. We’re in a fucking church.”

 

Adam corrected, “ _Above_.” Then there was another groan. “Asshole,” he said, panting. Ronan used this moment to take in the sight: the boy he loved, sweat-slick, pressed against him, writhing. He looked like art, he was so beautiful. Instead of telling him so, Ronan kissed him softly, even though his jerks grew more furious. His lips were tentative, and they showed what he couldn’t say: _I love you._

 

He could feel the want in Adam as if it were an alive, physical thing, which was more than a little odd. The whole idea of giving Adam Parrish a handjob in the middle of the night was a strange one he never really assumed could be possible. But now that he had this, had Adam coming apart in front of him, eyes wild and hair mussed, he didn’t want to let it go. So he kissed harder, chaotic and messy, easy as breathing.

 

When Adam came, Ronan was still hard but didn’t care—he just watched as Adam’s face twisted and semen spilt over Ronan’s hand. They kissed again, close-mouthed and languid. Ronan removed his hands and wiped them on his trousers, dishevelled. Adam raised an eyebrow. “Gross,” he muttered, seemingly still recovering.

 

“At least I’m not the one who’s sleeping in damp underwear,” Ronan points out; Adam glares at him.

 

“Fuck you. Get into bed with me.”

 

Although Ronan replied to this with a blunt, “Needy shit,” he obliged easily, doing his best not to tense as Adam wrapped an arm around his chest. This sort of intimacy was a large step, Ronan thought, but a pleasant one at that. He relaxed at the weight of Adam’s head nested in the junction of his neck, hair tickling gently, breaths beginning to even out once more. Just in that moment, everything felt precious. It was sweeter, more subtle a feeling compared to the rush of street racing, but Ronan reckoned it was better. It felt like safety, like even though the mattress was lumpy, he was the most comfortable he’d ever been. He knew this kind of gesture was perhaps supposed to feel casual, but Ronan’s feelings were anything but that. But, regardless, he let the intensity in the back of his mind fizzle into something delicate, then mindlessly kissed the top of Adam’s head.

 

Ronan closed his eyes but did not sleep for at least another two hours, terrified he’d dream something horrible up and ruin the moment, ruin _Adam_. He thought that at this stage, perhaps he should’ve gotten a grip against this fear; but he couldn’t quite learn to control how that part of his mind worked, and so only fell asleep at a last resort, exhausted, undefined.


	7. afraid

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Navigating the world was a little bit tricky, but although he’d never admit it aloud, he was grateful he wasn’t going through it alone. The reassurance of Adam’s hand resting gently atop of his thigh and the familiarity of the 300 Fox Way household dwindled his fears to background static—just a drone he could easily ignore in the right situation.
> 
> **VII: BECAUSE HE PRECEDED PLEASE WITH, _I'M NOT AFRAID OF YOU_.**

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Last chapter! So fucking sorry I took almost a month, but I've been extremely stressed and busy, _God_. I'm sad it's over -- I've grown awfully attached to this fic. Thank you so, _so_ much for all the lovely comments and kudos and bookmarks. Feedback means the world to me and I'm so thankful you enjoyed reading this as much as I loved writing it! x

Waking up was a strange sensation that came in many variations. Seldom was it as portrayed in movies for Ronan Lynch, where eyes would flutter open gently and willingly. No, it was gaining consciousness with the cruel urge to keep his eyes squeezed closed so he didn’t have to face what he’d created; it was overflows of guilt and pain and fear washing over him, barely even processing it. Although Ronan preferred being awake to asleep, the first few moments of consciousness were perhaps equally as bad as the nightmares themselves. This was dealing with the aftermath. Cleaning wounds and burying bodies and killing demons. Life was still a sort of battlefield, dodging bullets as he lived, and although he’d gotten used to it, he certainly did not appreciate it.

 

After Cabeswater had obligingly sacrificed itself in order to resurrect Gansey, Ronan feared his dreams would be worse without its protection. After he’d been pressed (he wasn’t a fan of talking about his feelings, so Henry fucking Cheng playfully threatened him to just _talk_ for a moment), Blue had voiced her opinion: “Well, it was okay before you dreamt Cabeswater, right? I mean, it can’t be _that_ much worse, can it?”

 

Ronan had replied, “Congrats, maggot. Now you’ve jinxed it.”

 

He did not sleep for two and a half days after Gansey’s rebirth, much to the dismay of Adam. Ronan thought that to be a bit hypocritical considering Adam’s sinful relationship with sleeping, but Adam refused to accept it. But he knew the extent Ronan’s fears went to, and he therefore didn’t pester him so much.

 

_I’m so tired. I’m so scared. I don’t know what I’m doing._

 

Navigating the world was a little bit tricky, but although he’d never admit it aloud, he was grateful he wasn’t going through it alone. The reassurance of Adam’s hand resting gently atop of his thigh and the familiarity of the 300 Fox Way household dwindled his fears to background static—just a drone he could easily ignore in the right situation. Blue and Maura had refused to let everyone part ways for at least a few days after all the adventure, and while he was not particularly fond of some of the ladies there, Ronan didn’t quite have the energy or hatred to decline. Consequently, he was stuck lying down on the sofabed next to Adam Parrish, who was visibly sound asleep, eyes itching to close, mind aching to just stay awake one moment longer, just _one moment please just delay the nightmares a little longer—_

 

Ronan got up hastily but quietly, and after debating, gratuitously stole a yoghurt from the fridge and sat down on a stool in the kitchen. He didn’t even fucking like yoghurts—he just desperately, achingly, badly did not want to go to sleep. Especially not surrounded by other people who he could _easily_ hurt by pulling something alarming out. He knew it wasn’t his fault, objectively. But he couldn’t help the demonic weight that sat ever-prominent on his shoulders each time he created a monster. He also knew that he was extremely in love with Adam Parrish, and that Adam at least liked him back, and hurting him was just about the _last_ thing Ronan could ever want. Ronan wanted a future with Adam, but the idea of everything falling apart because of him was— _God._ He binned the yoghurt and sat back down.

 

He hadn’t exactly meant to wake his boyfriend—were they even _boyfriends_ yet?—but when Adam moved to sit next to him, it felt better. Like the world was manageable once more. He felt less alone. Adam greeted him with a small, barely noticeable smile that Ronan didn’t bother reciprocating; he was met with a frown at that.

 

“Ronan,” said Adam, blunt and simple. “You have to sleep.”

 

He responded, “I know.” A fact, not a confession. He reckoned he couldn’t quite handle a heart-to-heart now.

 

It was quiet for a while before Adam spoke. “I’m sorry.”

 

“What for?” Adam moved his hands to his own neck, keeping eye contact with Ronan throughout. “Adam, no. That wasn’t you, don’t you get that?!” He was still whispering, albeit ferociously.

 

“But it was _my_ hands, Ronan, and— you should’ve stopped me, y’know?”

 

The truth was: Ronan would rather die than hurt Adam. So that’s what he said, except it came out like this: “Okay, then. Parrish, strangle me.”

 

“What the fuck? I couldn—”

 

“That,” said Ronan, “is my point. _You_ couldn’t.”

 

Adam swallowed. “I’ve been having nightmares about it—you—since, and—you’re just—dying. Over and over. Because—because of _me_.”

 

He snorted, smiled in a sort of sadistic manner. “Join the club, Parrish. Been having ‘em since forever, and I still can’t stop them”—he yawned—“no matter what.”

 

Adam shifted his chair so it was closer to Ronan’s. Ronan, on impulse, automatically brushed a strand of Adam’s hair out of his face, but then left his hand at the nape of his neck just resting. Adam placed one of his hands on Ronan’s thigh and laced their free hands together. Ronan was glad it was dark—it disguised the heat rising to his cheeks. They sat like that a while, just appreciating the presence of each other. It was an awfully intimate moment considering it was likely around 2 in the morning and they were at Fox Way rather than St. Agnes or the Barns, but Ronan cherished it nonetheless, despite its undeniable awkwardness. It was them. Ronan and Adam. Ronan-and-Adam, a conjoined unit brought together by fate, or some shit like that. The universe was okay, sometimes, when it calmed down and let these peaceful moments take place.

 

Ronan opened his mouth, closed it. He couldn’t find the words to say, and although Adam’s eyebrow raise indicated a desired response, he couldn’t speak. There was cotton in his mind, his throat was swollen. It felt… it felt an awful lot like being rendered powerless, and he hated it. Hated that he couldn’t just suck it up and say something. Hated himself for not being brave enough.

 

Pointedly not looking Adam in the eyes, he finally choked out, “I might bring something bad back. I might hurt you.” It was the truth, but not nearly all of it. He was so, _so_ afraid, but he had developed an awfully complicated relationship with words over the years of his life, and didn’t have the slightest clue as to how he could tell Adam—or anyone for that matter—how he felt. Ronan Lynch was someone who always opted to _do_ rather than _say._  He would show his feelings rather than voice them aloud, and those who grew close enough to him were easily able to decode him.

 

Adam shook his head. “But it’s okay. I won’t leave, and I won’t hate you for it, either.” He leaned in, but Ronan turned his head away; Adam’s lips met his cheek instead, which Adam frowned at. “ _Ronan_ ,” he said, meeting his eyes again.

 

Soft: “Adam.”

 

“Sleep. Not even right now, okay? Just at some point. But just— kiss me? Please. I’m not afraid of you.”

 

Ronan kissed him at that, all lips and racing hearts and foggy thoughts. He kissed him like Adam was oxygen he had to breathe, fresh and crisp. He closed his eyes and let his lungs fill with air. Kissing Adam was losing all your feelings. It was forgetting the world around you, only aware of Adam’s lips and tongue and hands, just— _Adam_ . It was falling in love over and over, being hit with the emotion like a goddamn train moving at the speed of light, all of a sudden with no warning except gut instinct whispering, _Should you let yourself fall?_ But it was ignoring that, and taking the leap of faith, soaring together. And when it was over—when their lips reluctantly parted—it was being caught; that was the most important part, Ronan thought: being there to catch each other.

 

“Okay,” agreed Ronan, finally.

 

They went to bed.


End file.
